


Gunfire And Emotions

by an_altoids_tin_of_wonders



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, F/F, LOTS of violence, M/M, Multi, everyone is angry and sad and bleeding, the squip is a piece of shit, vigilante/assassin au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-11-23 17:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11406864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_altoids_tin_of_wonders/pseuds/an_altoids_tin_of_wonders
Summary: Micheal Mell is a twenty-something vigilante with a thing for guns and a lot of pent-up anger.Jeremy Heere is a kid who fell in with the extreme version of a bad crowd.They keep bumping into each other for all the wrong reasons.





	1. Chapter 1

"Fuck-" Michael pants, hitting the ground harder than he would've liked. He reaches for his gun, but Jeremy kicks it away, laughing. He rolls to the side, a bullet whizzing past his ear and striking the ground where was moments before.   
He jumps to his feet, his breathing still way out of wack and his glasses starting to slip down his nose, and pulls a pistol from the back holster of his belt.   
"That's cheating." Jeremy says, Michael noting with satisfaction that he is also out of breath.   
It makes his lungs feel like hell to laugh, but he forces himself to, matching Jeremy's anxious circling and keeping his gun level with Jeremy's chest. His eyes- ice blue and intelligent, eager and excited in the heat of the fight, shining in the sun- are holding Micheal's gaze.   
"All's fair in love and war."   
Jeremy stumbles at his words, his foot slipping and Michael moves fast enough to catch him before he hits the ground, holding him in a way that probably would look romantic if it weren't for the fact that the muzzle of the gun is pressed against Jeremy's stomach.   
One of Jeremy's arms is around Michael's shoulders, Michael's free hand on the small of his back, and both of them are slightly breathless, Michael grinning.   
Jeremy's gun slips from his hand. The gunshot seems louder than usual and Jeremy blinks, stunned.   
Michael takes advantage of his moment of shock to shift his gun from any vital organs to where Jeremy's torso meets his thigh. He looks away, mind probably racing to find a way to get his gun back- it's a nice gun, blackmarketed from god knows where, Jeremy has connections- and Michael has to shut his eyes to be able to pull the trigger.   
The noise that comes out of him after the gun goes off makes Micheal grit his teeth. He drops the kid in a way he knows won't bang anything important- head, tailbone- on the ground. He shoots him again, in the space between his neck and right shoulder, and turns away.    
He retrieves his other gun and after a moment of thought, Jeremy's.   
"Piece of shit," Jeremy says, coughing and pulling himself to his feet. He pulls a switchblade from his pocket and flicks it out, but Michael faces him with the kind of calm confidence he didn't know he could manage until he started holding weapons.   
"Just drop it, Jeremiah. You're done." He spits his full name from his lips like poison and Jeremy's already-furious grin hardens. He lurches forward, brandishing his knife, but his injured leg gives out and he falls to the ground again. Micheal fires another shot, one that grazes his upper left arm, then approaches him with a practicedly casual stride. He kneels down and Jeremy mutters profanity-ridden insults and attempts to stab him. Michael twists the knife out of his hand.   
He pats him down, Jeremy hissing when he finds the cash from the day's heist. Micheal can't resist sticking his tongue out at him like a child, and it earns him a punch to the face that makes his glasses crooked.   
"You're gonna pay for this."   
"You said that last time."   
"Fuck you."   
"You wanna?"   
He stands, chuckling at Jeremy's expression, and promptly knocks him out with the butt of his own gun. He dials 911 on the burner phone in Jeremy's pocket, and slips out of the parking garage, trying to ignore the way his heart is pounding in favor of finding a way back to his team without being caught or just dropping dead on the street.   
He slips out of his coat, dropping it as casually as possible into a garbage can on the sidewalk, swaps his normal glasses for his gang-funded pair of transition lenses and thanks god it's sunny enough for them to darken immediately. Headphones on, no music, both of the normal-sized handguns in inside pockets. He has an open-carry license- forged, obviously- but he doesn't want to risk it. The shootout in the garage probably wasn't called in, considering the neighborhood, but the last thing he and the gang needs is their best guy for combat getting picked up as a suspect.   
He hops on the first available bus he sees, swiping his pass with hands that are still shaking faintly. He takes a seat in the back, headphones off and around his neck, and pulls out his phone.   
Brooke answers. "Where the hell are you, Mell?"   
"I got the money." He doesn't risk whispering. The second he starts whispering is he second the entire bus tunes into the conversation.   
"Did anyone see you?"   
"Heere definitely did."   
"What is up with you two? You know his first name, you ditch jobs just to dick around with each other-"   
"Did you not hear me? I got the money."   
"Yes, I heard you. How much is it?"   
"We were right. Thirty thousand."   
She whistles. "Where are you?"   
"A bus. The second stop is a block away from Jake's place."   
He can hear her processing this. "I'll call him."   
"Where's Christine?"   
"She's got a job."   
The bus pulls to a stop and Michael shifts in his seat, the uneasiness starting to get to him.   
"You know where?"   
"Uptown."   
Micheal nods.   
"Is Heere dead yet?"   
"No."   
Brooke huffs in annoyance and Michael cuts in before she can chew him out. "I can't kill him, dude, we need him. He's gonna slip up eventually, we'll get a breakthrough."   
She doesn't say anything, and Michael almost hangs up before she says, "Just stay careful, alright? He doesn't have any reason to keep you alive."   
"...I will."   
"See you."   
She hangs up first, and Micheal shoves his hands in his pockets, looking out the window and praying nothing goes wrong between now and his stop.   
The bus screeches to a stop after far too long, and Michael takes a deep breath, trying to calm his erratic heart.   
It's only the thought of what's gonna happen to him and Jeremy Heere if he's caught with this money that keeps him from running the block to Jake's hideout.   
"Jakey D, you better be home, man, this is important," He mutters, banging on the apartment door.   
Jake's hair is a mess, and he's wearing nothing but boxers and a t shirt, but when Michael says "I got it." His eyes light up and he ushers him inside.   
"Dude, how the fuck?"   
"Heere."   
Jake's eyebrows go up. "You killed Heere?"   
"No." He starts emptying his pockets on the table, and Jake picks up Jeremy's gun, running his fingers over the expensive weapon.   
He sets the stack of bills down and sits down on Jake's couch, suddenly exhausted.   
"You're a mess, man, did you go out anywhere like that?"   
"I got a bus. Why, do I really look shitty?" He's becoming more and more aware of a sharp pain in his ribs as the adrenaline fades, and for the first time he notices that the shot Jeremy aimed for his hip earlier might not have missed. He unzips his hoodie and rolls his shirt up a little.   
Jake sucks in a breath. "Jeez, dude." He kneels down to look.   
"Just tell me if there's a bullet and we can deal with it later." That's a goddamn lie- his ribs feel like death itself and his hip is bleeding like nobody's business, he needs painkillers, and soon- but the job is the most important thing right now.   
"It's in there, man." He looks up, worried, and Micheal groans.   
"Whatever." He pulls his shirt down and his ribs scream in protest at the movement. "We'll just light a joint and do some home surgery later." He steals a cigarette from Jake's coffee table. He doesn't smoke much anymore, but it helps calm him down when he doesn't have weed.   
Jake's sideeyeing him, obviously worried, but Michael doesn't have time to console him, and he's nearly done with his cigarette when Brooke bangs on the door. Jake answers it and Michael starts to wish for coffee or something, coffee and painkillers.   
"Jesus fuck, Michael." He shuts his eyes. She's barely yelling and it still makes his head pound. "What the hell?"   
He snuffs his cigarette on the coffee table. He can see Jake wince out of the corner of his eye.   
"Chasing down Heere by yourself for some stupid job!"   
"I can take Heere." Michael snarls. Brooke licks her thumb and rubs gravel out of a scrape on his cheek Michael didn't even know he had. It stings like a bitch, but he does his best to be good-natured and sit through it.   
"Not by yourself you can't." She looks at Jake. "Gunshots?"   
"Hey- you could ask me about my own goddamn injuries!"   
"You're not gonna tell me."   
She has a point. He fixes Jake with the sternest look he can manage, but the taller boy turns to Brooke and says, "His hip. And he's moving like he's got some broken ribs."   
"Hey, you haven't seen my ribs, you have no idea! And my hip isn't even that bad. The job is the big deal right now."   
"The job wasn't a big deal to begin with! Thirty thousand from a bank. This is about your personal fucking vendetta against Heere, not the job."   
His head is throbbing now, and he's becoming more and more in tune to all the bruises and scrapes and fucking aches and all he wants to do is sleep but then Brooke is lifting the corner of his shirt and it hurts so bad he cries out.   
He bats her hand away with the energy he has left. "Jesus, you could warn me!"   
He expects her to snap back, but her eyes are dark with concern. "Michael..."   
"Chill! We can patch it up soon."   
"It's bad, Michael, it might've hit bone-"   
"If it hit bone, I would know." He grabs another cigarette fron the coffee table and ignores the stabbing pain in his ribs that worsens when he lights it. "C'mon, text Christine and tell her to get here ASAP so we can talk about what we're doing with the money."   
Jake and Brooke exchange a look, but they don't say anything, and Michael leans back and takes a long drag on his cigarette. He wonders how Heere's doing.


	2. Chapter 2

Jeremy's consciousness is slipping. That he knows.  
Michael has the money. He knows that too.  
The concrete is cold.  
He can hear the 911 operator on the phone and he doesn't know if he can talk just yet but he doesn't know what he would say if he could.  
He's been shot. He could tell them that.  
He could tell them he got shot and they would tell him to put pressure on the wound and wait for an ambulance to arrive and then they'd patch him up and stop the bleeding and the pain, the pain that is making it hard to keep his eyes open, and his dad would come to visit him-  
His dad.  
The Squip.  
911.  
He fumbles for his phone and ends the call, smearing blood on the screen, and calls the only number in the contacts, beginning to panic, and then the ringing stops and then that calm voice.  
"Yes, Jeremy?"  
"I'm- Mi- Mell, he, he shot me, I don't know if I can walk-"  
"Where are you?"  
"The garage- the one we-"  
"I know which garage. Richard will come collect you shortly."  
The call ends and Jeremy leans back against the wall, for once not worried about the muggers and whatever else, all that bullshit, and he lets go because is there really anything left to do and everything is black and when he opens his eyes again he's leaning on Rich's shoulder.  
It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.  
The elevator bench. The elevator. The Squip's elevator.  
He sits up and Rich looks over.  
"Oh good, thought I was gonna have to carry you up." He laughs mirthlessly. "Squip woulda loved that."  
His head is pounding. He does a mental tally of his pain, something the Squip taught them all to do, and compares the worst spots to his memory of the shootout. He touches above his collarbone where Micheal shot him and looks at Rich quizzically when he feels bandages. The Squip has a rule against getting medical attention if your mission isn't successful.  
Rich looks meaningfully in the direction of the camera.  
"Didn't want you bleeding all over His office." He says, meeting Jeremy's eyes again and making sure the capital H is apparent in his voice. The Squip doesn't require that, but he likes it.  
Jeremy doesn't.  
He nods at Rich and goes back to staring at the elevator doors. He can kind of see his own reflection, and he doesn't know how Rich got him here without too much suspicion. There's a cut on his cheek and he wonders if it was Michael or Rich or his unconscious self. He can't place most of his injuries, he realizes.  
The elevator dings to a stop and Rich stands, streching.  
"See ya, kid." Jeremy nods, his eyes on Rich's wrist as he rotates it absent-mindedly. Jeremy still remembers the day he broke that wrist. "Let's grab a coffee sometime."  
The elevator doors shut behind him and Jeremy is left alone to think about the sound Rich made when the Squip brought his $60,000 paperweight down on that wrist and told him he wasn't going to the hospital until he learned how to do his goddamn job.  
The elevator stops again and Jeremy notices that his anxiety is mostly outweighed by the exhaustion and the constant pain. Maybe he should fight Micheal Mell more often.  
He forces himself to his feet and drags himself to the Squip's office door. The elevator doesn't open directly into his office, because that wouldn't be enough of a power trip, would it? That wouldn't be enough for him.  
Jeremy is tempted to knock once and barge in, because he just wants this over with, but fear forces him to knock twice, and he notices it hurts his knuckles much more than usual.  
"Enter."  
The Squip has his back to Jeremy, silhouetted against the floor to ceiling windows, and he doesn't move or speak as Jeremy begins the walk to his desk.  
His footsteps seem deafening and it wouldn't surprise him if that is reinforced by the design of the place. The entire office is intentionally fear-inducing.  
He finally reaches the chair in front of the Squip's desk, which he knows from experience isn't nearly as comfortable as it looks. It makes him miss the chairs in the principal's office in his high school.  
The Squip finally turns, the motion fluid and slow and calculated to drag out the anticipation. Jeremy knows this routine and it's still beginning to make him afraid.  
He strolls around to sit on top of the desk.  
"Well, Jeremy. It seems you've made quite a bit of a mistake." His voice reminds Jeremy of his mother's when she was angry. Quiet, but intense enough to be terrifying.  
"Losing my money. To Mell of all people. A fucking high school dropout with a gun beat the shit out of you like this."  
"I- I'm sorry." He manages.  
The Squip's expression softens. "Of course you are." He puts his hand on Jeremy's shoulder, smiling the way his father did the first time he fell off his bike.  
"Of course you're fucking sorry." His grip tightens, his thumb digging into Jeremy's gunshot and his nails cutting into his shoulder until Jeremy cries out and he still doesn't stop. "You failed, Jeremy. You are a failure." His smile is twisted, cruel, and there are tears welling up in Jeremy's eyes and all he wants is for the pain to stop, for the word failure to get out of his head, written on the inside of his skull like it was written on his forehead the first time he fucked up a job-  
The Squip lets go and he leans back in his chair and catches his breath.  
"What would your father think if he knew about this, Jeremy? What would he do if he knew how much of a failure his son was?"  
Jeremy can't think straight, he can feel warm blood trickling down his chest and his vision is blurry and his mouth tastes like metal, like blood, and he can feel himself start to cough, but he doesn't know what the Squip might do if he got blood anywhere in his office, so he swallows hard and the tears are warm and sting his eyes when they slip down his cheeks.  
"Of course, we could remedy that issue. Your father only has to deal with the pathetic excuse for a son that you are because you're both alive." He's leaned back out of Jeremy's space now, his air of confidence undisturbed. He uncrosses and recrosses his legs.  
"No- he hasn't done anything, he doesn't deser-" Jeremy breaks into a coughing fit and the Squip says nothing, just watches impassively, and when Jeremy gets his breath back there's blood on the sleeve of his jacket.  
"Well, if you want dear old dad to stay breathing," He stretches his leg out so his shoe jabs right into Jeremy's other gunshot. "You might want to do your job." He says, pushing harder with every word.  
They've been over this, so many times, too many times, what he can do to Jeremy's dad if he fucks up, and he hates it,  hates knowing that he could get his dad killed, he could die and it would be Jeremy's goddamn fault, and god, he's clutching the armrests of the chair and his eyes are watering and his vision is black on the edges and then the Squip stops but the pain barely decreases.  
"Don't do this again, Jeremy. For your father's sake."  
His dress shoes click away and Jeremy stares at the spots of blood on the white floor, trying to catch his breath.  
The click of the intercom mic.  
"Richard? Jeremy needs a hand back home. Tell his father he fell off of his bike or something like that. We'll get the bullets out of him tomorrow."


	3. Chapter 3

"Jesus, Christine, you sure you're not making things worse?"  
"Brooke, I swear to god-"  
"Eyes on the patient, Canigula, you're gonna- fuck!-" He hisses in pain. "You're gonna kill me!"  
"Michael, don't move, you'll mess her up."  
Micheal wants to kill himself.  
Not for real, legitimate, depressed reasons, no, he just wants everyone to shut the fuck up, and he's the reason they're talking.  
Christine insisted on taking a look at his wounds the second she arrived at Jake's, not giving him a chance to even drink anything, let alone have a joint-  
"Christine, give him a break!"  
"He's fine."  
So she started literally removing a bullet from him while he was stone-cold sober.  
He's still sober, too. He hasn't had a break since she started, and it's goddamn painful without anything to dull it.  
It doesn't help that Jake and Brooke are still in the fucking room, adding their commentary.  
"Ah- Jesus!"  
Christine looks up, tweezers in hand, and Michael is relieved as hell to see that she's holding the bullet, and his hip stings like a fucking bitch.  
"God, fuck," He leans back. "Jake," He gestures vaguely. "Gimme a cigarette, dude, I'm dying."  
Christine rolls her eyes. "Well, it's as clean as it's gonna get and the bullet's out."  
"You're a life-saver, Christine." Michael says around his cigarette. The pain is ridiculous, and it only gets worse when Christine starts bandaging, but he doesn't want to think about what would happen if he didn't have her to do this shit.  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever."  
It takes a couple hours and a trip to the drugstore, but eventually Michael is bullet-free and essentially fine.  
Essentially and not totally because it seems like a couple of his ribs are broken and they can't really do anything about that besides bandage him up and hope for the best. Brooke or someone probably has hospital money, and they even discussed using some of the money from the job, but Michael deterred them from that idea by pointing out the fact that they'd need to explain where he got the injuries. He's not letting any of them waste money on him like that.  
He leaves his black jacket at Jake's and walks home in his non-gangwear hoodie, the red one that he's had to rip some patches off of in the last couple years, headphones on, letting Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band accompany him home. The sky is gray and he admires it, appreciates the visible counterpart to his own mood. It's good for the aesthetic.  
He lets himself into his apartment and goes straight for the stereo to load a CD. Owl City fills the lonely apartment and Micheal sighs, collapsing onto the couch.  
He's been doing a lot of sighing lately.  
It starts to rain, the soft patter on the windows a surprisingly soothing sound, and Michael ignores his responsibilities and shuts his eyes.  
He's had a long day, he reasons. He deserves this.  
His ribs give a twinge of pain and he sighs, wishing for a moment that he never got into this shit in the first place. Don't get him wrong, the kid loves helping people, loves shooting assholes who ruin people's lives, but sometimes he wishes he could've just kept his anger to himself. Wishes he didn't have to go poking around when that money vanished from the children's hospital a couple blocks over, wishes he never met Jake and Brooke, wishes this shit never happened and he never found out what Jeremy Heere did with his life after high school.  
When he opens his eyes again, it's considerably darker and he gets up from the couch to plug in his fairy lights and actually eat something.  
He makes pasta and sings along as much as his ribs will allow, banging his hip on the counter once and almost killing himself then and there. Jeremy's gun is lying on the kitchen table next to his own, and the houseplant Brooke got him for his last birthday is starting to wilt despite the ungodly amount of plant nutrients Micheal has fed it.  
Brooke and Jake are pretty good friends, he reflects. Good people, too. Micheal doesn't know about himself sometimes; other people's blood haunts his nightmares and sometimes cleaning his guns makes him feel sick.  
But Jake and Brooke are noble people. They were doing this long before he was, and they still took him in when he got involved, 17 and shaking and barely able to hold a gun, let alone be of any help. The job was simple and not the least bit morally ambiguous- shoot the assholes, take the money they stole, start running- and Michael still managed to almost get them killed.  
They didn't care, though, they took him back to Brooke's apartment and explained what they did and when Brooke told him he held a gun like a thirteen year old Jake showed him what he was doing wrong.  
He learned quick, they told him, and he never really believed them until Christine joined the team and it took her two months to hit a killshot on a target. Maybe he was born for this. He wonders sometimes, wonders if it's some kind of destiny thing, that he was meant to end up with a gun in his hand every miserable goddamn day of his life, and he doesn't know how he feels about that. It doesn't make him feel any better about the whole morality thing.  
He's grateful that he had built his music collection before he left school, because he'd be washing his dishes in silence if he had to buy CDs with his current paycheck situation. Most of the job money just goes straight back to whoever it was stolen from in the first place, with the occasional incident where they had already been killed.  
His phone buzzes in his pocket and he dries his hands off on his shitty ikea hand towel.  
_yo we're thinking we'll split it three ways?? u get the biggest cut, then some goes to charity, then me + brooke + christine can split the rest_  
_**yeah thats fine bro but like u sure?** _  
_totally man u did the legwork lmao_  
_**bless**_  
They don't know where the money from this job came from, exactly, they just know that Jeremy and whatever team he's working with got a hold of thirty thousand dollars through mildly illegal means. Jeremy picked it up from some shadyass dude in an alley, then ducked into a parking garage where Micheal finally broke his cover and started shooting.  
He shakes his head a little, trying to clear his mind. Jeremy Heere is the last person he needs to be thinking about this much.  
He turns the music up a little more. The official noise complaint he recieved on behalf of his upstairs neighbors last week is stuck to his fridge with a magnet, but it's a Friday night and they can go fuck themselves.  
He dicks around for a while, watching youtube and avoiding thinking about Jeremy and the job and the fact that him and Jake and Brooke rarely hang out outside of work, and when he finally goes to bed, it's after popping three sleep aids and texting Christine to thank her again.  
Micheal doesn't know if he's a good person, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't hope he is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter was a lot less gunfire and a lot more emotions lmao 
> 
> btw thank u guys for the support!!   
>  this is a really self indulgent au and i wasnt expecting anyone to like it that much so seeing the response to it was hella cool   
>  i should be updating weekly but hopefully i'll have the time to do it biweekly


	4. Chapter 4

"So, how're your bulletholes?" Rich asks, blowing on his coffee.   
He's sitting opposite Jeremy in a tiny coffee shop that he insisted is 'the fucking bomb, man'. The coffee is actually pretty good.   
"Fine." They're not really; he suspects infection in the one on his shoulder. Fuck the Squip.   
Rich makes an approving noise, sipping his coffee.   
It's weird to see him somewhere like this, somewhere casual.  
He's wearing a sweater. Jeremy's never seen him in something more comfortable than a tank top and he figured that was just how Rich was.   
He takes another sip of his coffee to avoid having to say anything.   
"You think we'll have another job soon?" He probably looks anxious to anyone passing by- Rich is fidgety.   
"I fuckin' hope not. He probably won't let me go on it 'cause of my leg." He's been limping for the past week despite the fact that they did end up getting the bullets out- the bullets out and nothing else, no painkillers allowed, per usual treatment when the job is a failure.   
Rich nods sympathetically, picking at the sleeves of his sweater.   
"I feel you, man." He rotates his left wrist. "I remember when I couldn't go on jobs." Rich hasn't failed a job in over two years, and Jeremy suspects sometimes it's out of fear.   
"Rich," He begins, but falters. They haven't really talked like this in a long time, but Rich raises his eyebrows inquisitively over his coffee cup, and Jeremy continues. "Rich, why do you stick around? I don't know what it's like at home for you, obviously, but like, I only keep doing this 'cause he'll kill my dad otherwise,"   
Rich looks at his hands, still fiddling with his sleeves.   
"I, uh, well, the Squip's kinda like..." He looks uncomfortable and Jeremy is about to say fuck it, nevermind, but then he continues. "I'll be straight with you, Jere, I don't have a dad."   
He pauses for a sip of coffee, his ears turning red.   
"And the Squip, man..." He looks away, rotating his wrist again. "He's like a dad, Jere, he's like the dad I never had."   
Jeremy blinks.   
"Rich- he- he's the one who fucked your wrist up like that! He- Rich, you can't mean that!"   
Rich looks back at him, eyebrows raised.   
"Jerry, buddy, that was my fault." He smiles a little. "Dude, I fucked that job up so bad I'm lucky I still have my hand."   
"You were thirteen!" Jeremy says, and he's probably yelling at that point, but he remembers being thirteen and standing in the doorway of the Squip's office and hearing Rich scream-  
"Jere, shh, chill."   
He reaches across the table and takes Jeremy's hand in his, gently. It's surprisingly calming.   
"Rich, how could you... Rich, he's not anything close to a dad." They hold eye contact for a moment, neither of them with any idea what comes next in this conversation.   
Rich's phone rings.   
He answers it, letting go of Jeremy's hand and looking away just enough that their eyes don't meet anymore.   
"Alright. Yeah, I'll be right there." He pauses. "I think he can, sir, he's walking just fine now." He nods a couple times. "We'll be there. Sir."   
He clears his throat and looks back at Jeremy.   
"There's a job."   
"I gathered."   
Rich takes another drink of his coffee. "Be at his office Monday morning. And hide your limp."   
Jeremy nods. Rich's expression softens somewhat, his concern evident.   
"Don't push youself too hard, though. Alright, Jere?" He says, playing with his hands. "I know you're used to this, but..." He gestures aimlessly, the color rising in his face. "I don't know. I worry, I guess." He chugs the rest of his coffee and stands. "See you around, Jerry."   
He walks out. Jeremy blinks, surprised.   
It's cloudy when he begins the walk home, stepping lightly over the assorted puddles on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets.   
Rich is worried about him. Rich. He's worried about Jeremy getting hurt.   
He jumps in a puddle, splashing hard enough to soak his ankles through his jeans, trying to clear his head. The last thing he needs is his dad getting concerned, god knows he's on thin ice in terms of raising suspicion.   
His dad started asking him questions a couple years back, giving him a curfew for the first time since his mother left, and there had been a team of snipers on him for a week, ready and waiting for Jeremy to slip up again.   
He stomps another puddle.   
His earbuds are in and his hands are stuffed in his pockets and his mind is determinedly clear of anything worth dwelling on when he catches a glimpse of bright red out of the corner of his eye.   
It's some kid across the street in a red hoodie, a red hoodie that is startlingly familiar, and before Jeremy can force himself to look away- eyes front, Heere- he looks up to the kid's face and it's _Micheal_.   
He stumbles over the sidewalk and flushes, but Micheal has his headphones on, nodding along to his music, and hasn't noticed him.   
And, god, if he did- Jeremy rolls his eyes internally. He'd start shooting, Heere. He's not your high school crush anymore, you dumbass.   
They're getting closer to each other and Jeremy is observing him in little fleeting glances, the spring in his step that isn't present when they fight, the new pair of headphones- with a pang, he notices the space where his patch used to be. His own high school hoodie, buried deep within his closet, still has the Player 2 iron-on on the shoulder.   
He pulls his jacket- Squip approved, darker and more expensive than anything else he owns- tighter around himself, avoiding glancing in Micheal's direction and quickening his pace slightly until he passes.   
He rounds a corner and lets himself breathe. Some asshole gives him a weird look.   
He jogs home, making sure to run through every freezing cold puddle on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow are these chapters getting shorter or is it just me   
> if im gonna be totally honest ive been procrastinating on so much homework and shit lately lmao 
> 
> @ yall: ur comments give me life tbh 
> 
> the blood and emotional trauma will be back next chapter i promise


	5. not a chapter

hey kiddos  
im probably going to delete this later, but i just wanted to update u

ive been having a lot of mental health issues lately lmao  
the new chapter is about 75% done and i havent worked on it in about a week b/c ive just been having breakdowns every night (which is kinda good b/c now i have a way better understanding of my feelings and shit) 

but do not distress  
im gonna pull an all nighter tonight and finish the new chapter + start the next one 

im sorry ive been gone so long  
i probably felt worse about it than you guys did lmao ive been feeling so guilty abt not writing


	6. Chapter 6

"Micheal? Micheal, are you listening?"   
Micheal jumps.   
"Yeah, yeah, Brooke, I'm good," He waves vaguely in her direction, avoiding her eyes.   
"Are you okay?" She asks, and she's doing that thing, she's looking at him with way too much concern and Jake is glancing over at him too, sympathetic.   
"You've been kinda out of it-" Jake begins.   
"I'm fine." He says, resisting the urge to lean back onto his hand. He can't remember the last time he's gotten a good night's sleep, and on top of that, he can't stop thinking about what happened the other day-  
"Alright, so,"   
He digs his elbows into Jake's breakfast bar a little harder, trying to keep himself focused. Fuck Jeremy. Fuck Jeremy Heere and that sad look on his face when he saw Micheal's patch was missing, fuck him and fuck everything and fuck his stupid ribs that will not stop aching.   
"Micheal!" Brooke snaps.   
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," He runs his hand through his hair. "I-"   
"Take a nap." She says. She's worried, giving him this look that makes him think of his mom. "You're exhausted, Micheal."  
He opens his mouth, but Jake cuts in.   
"You look like shit, dude. Get some rest. The couch is hella comfy, and we can sort out the job details and everything."   
He wants to argue, but they remind him of his parents when they look at him like that and he doesn't have the fucking energy and he just gets up and collapses onto the couch, making his hip twinge with pain.   
When he opens his eyes again it's darker and he can hear Brooke and Jake talking quietly. The arms of his glasses are digging into his skin.   
"We should call Christine, we might need her input."   
"You just want to see her again."   
"Shut up."   
Micheal stares at the ceiling.   
"What time is it?" He asks quietly.   
"One thirtyish." Jake says.   
"Jeez." He sits up and streches, sighing when something in his back cracks. "Sorry."   
The two of them have mugs of coffee in hand, and Brooke pours a third and hands it to him when he stands up.   
"Thanks." He takes a sip. It's just the way he likes it, sugary enough that it gives Jake a headache, and he feels a sudden urge to thank them, express his gratitude for everything they've done, but he just clears his throat and says, "So, what's the plan?"   
\---  
Jeremy fucking Heere is the bane of Micheal's existence.   
"I swear to god, Heere, pull that trigger. I dare you."   
Brooke and Jake are in position, on their way out, if Micheal can just get Jeremy out of the goddamn way.   
His getaway driver is very obviously waiting down the street, some short kid who Brooke is probably going to hurt a little, and if Jeremy could just drop the gun and they could agree to go their seperate ways, fair as possible, that would be great, because Micheal doesn't know if he can shoot him with the image of him three days ago, so fucking sad, still fresh in his mind.  
Jeremy is bleeding from a grazed bullet to the arm and a punch to the face, eyes narrowed and hands trembling as he faces Micheal down the barrel of his gun.   
"I'll do it." He says. His voice is slightly higher than usual and Micheal thinks he can hear it shake.   
His shirt is slipping down his shoulder and Micheal can see the gunshot he left a while ago and recoils unconsciously.   
It's obviously infected and looks disgusting, unbandaged and leaking, the skin around it red and irritated. A chill runs through him the more he thinks about what would've caused that, and he feels himself lowering his gun.   
"Je- Heere, what happening to your gunshot?" He asks, ignoring the danger of the situation, and his earpiece crackles with static.   
"Micheal! What the hell are you doing?" So Jake is on the roof they planned. Good to know that's working out.   
Micheal turns the earpiece off.   
"The fuck do you mean, what happened to my gunshot? You're the one who shot me, you should know." He says with a pale imitation of a grin. He still has his gun pointed directly at Micheal's chest, despite the fact that Micheal has long abandoned aiming his pistol.  
"Someone punished you for losing the money."   
It's not a question. It feels like something in Micheal has snapped. He shouldn't care like this. He should shoot him and run.   
Jeremy looks stricken, and his ice blue gaze holds Micheal's own for a moment before he looks away. They stand in silence until Micheal turns his earpiece back on.   
"Give me the case."   
Brooke and Jake start to protest but he cuts them off with a voice that doesn't sound much like his own- "Give me the case. I'll explain later, alright." He's pointedly looking away from Jeremy. His throat feels awful.   
"Micheal, you can't-" Brooke begins, but then there's a sound of weight hitting the pavement behind him and he turns to see Jake.   
He reaches for the case, but Jake takes a step back.   
"I'm trusting you."   
"I know."   
Jake holds the case out and doesn't let go when Micheal takes hold of the handle.   
"You're going to explain this?" His eyes are different. Intense.   
Micheal nods.   
Jake lets go and walks away, rejoining Brooke.   
Jeremy hasn't said a word and Micheal holds out the case.   
"C'mon, take it."   
"Why're you doing this?"   
"You're gonna get your ass kicked if you lose shit again, right?"   
He hasn't met Micheal's eyes yet. He nods.   
"Now take it and," He gestures vaguely with his gun. "Shoot me a little so you can say you hurt me and you don't have to lie."   
Now Jeremy looks at him. He's the same kind of hurt he was a few days ago, when they passed each other on the street, and Micheal has to look away.   
"I can lie to him."   
"Fine. Good. Then go, just- get going, Heere." Micheal says, because his brain doesn't know how to calm the fuck down apparently and his chest hurts and it feels like he might cry.   
Jeremy nods and ducks out of the alley.   
He thinks he might collapse. He's so tired.   
They make it back to Jake's, somehow. Micheal feels vaguely numb, and when he notices he's on Jake's couch he realizes he can't remember how he got there.   
"What the hell." Brooke pours herself a cup of coffee. She sighs. "Micheal, you gotta tell us what's up with you and Heere. Like, what the fuck, honestly, what was that?"   
She doesn't sound angry, just tired. Exhausted. Micheal can relate.   
"He's not doing it on his own."   
"Well, yeah." Jake says, the easy-going tone back in his voice, no trace of the intensity from the alleyway. "We know he can't be doing this shit alone." He yawns quietly.   
"No, he's not, he's not doing this because he wants to. Somebody's forcing him." He takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes, hard, until he sees sparks at the edges of his vision. "His gunshot- somebody fucked with it, it wasn't healing properly."   
Micheal can almost sense them exchanging a look, and when he hears Brooke draw breath to speak he says, "We went to highschool together. I know him." He pauses. "God, he's probably protecting his dad or something, Jeremy wouldn't... jesus, Jeremy wouldn't do this on his own, god, how did I-" His breaths are shallow and he realizes suddenly that his hands are wet where he's been covering his eyes.   
"Hey, hey, Micheal, honey, breathe." Brooke is next to him, the springs of the couch squeaking, the soft smell of her shampoo around him as she rubs circles on his back.   
Jake sits on the arm of the couch on his other side and his hand is a comforting weight on his shoulder as his breath comes back.   
"Jeremy, he- I don't know how I thought he was doing this on his own, jesus. God, he was such a nice guy and when he stopped talking to me, I was so fuckin' sad, and I was so pissed I never considered he was being forced into this shit."   
He wipes his eyes on his hoodie sleeve.   
"Jesus, I'm a mess." He laughs.   
"We're all messes." Jake says and they laugh together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah boy this was anticlimactic 
> 
>  
> 
> and man i gotta thank all of you that left nice comments on the update chapter like jeez   
> thank you guys   
> im working on getting a therapist rn so i should be doing better soon lmao


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who got back from vacation at 1am and started school the next day lmaooo

Jeremy's glad to have Rich. He's a chill guy, friendly enough, funny. He doesn't pry.  
And Jeremy doesn't feel like he has to lie to him.  
He smiles appreciatively across the table at Rich, who's been going on for the past five minutes about a girl he met at the grocery store last week. Jeremy's content to just sip his coffee and admire his friend. He doesn't feel this content often.  
Or ever, now that he thinks about it.  
"And she was like 'I only know, like, one guy who likes Varsity, and he's, y'know, a total douche,' so I dunno, man, we said we'll probably get together and listen to music sometime-" Something tightens in Jeremy's chest and all he can think of for a moment is sitting on the floor in Micheal's room when he brings home a new haul of one dollar records, smiling fondly as he places the needle-  
"Jeez, I feel bad, dude, I never asked how you're doing."  
"Oh, I'm alright." They haven't discussed the job. Or Micheal.  
Rich nods and takes a drink of his coffee. Jeremy's lungs begin to work on their own again.  
"That's good, man."  
They sit in comfortable silence for another couple of seconds, then Rich's gaze focuses on something over Jeremy's shoulder. Jeremy starts to turn and then a small group of kids joins their booth almost seamlessly, like they're all friends.  
"Jeremy Heere?" Asks the blonde girl who has taken a seat beside Rich.  
"I- who are you? What is this?"  
"Yeah, what the hell?" Rich asks.  
The guy next to Jeremy is respecting his personal space way more than he would expect from anyone trying to get money or information from them- there's a good four inches of bench between him and mr. fuckin quarterback over here- and he lets himself relax a little and sizes up the rest of these kids.  
Blonde Girl is about Rich's height, sitting with a kind of confidence the Squip never managed to drill into Jeremy. His gaze drifts to the other girl in this squad (?) who has pulled up a chair to the side of the table and is sitting on it backwards. The effect would be pretty badass, except that her feet barely touch the ground and she's kind of adorable.  
"So, uh, what is this? Y'all need information, money, you're kidnapping young men with bisexual tendancies?" Rich does the wrap it up hand thing. "We're trying to enjoy our coffee."  
Jeremy nods.  
Rich is a lot better at the tough thing.  
"We're with Micheal Mell." Blonde Girl says.  
Jeremy can feel his heart quicken. He thought it might be something like this. He hoped.  
"God, that sounds so dramatic. Is that really what we're going for, Brooke?" The girl in the chair asks, and Blonde Girl- Brooke- goes red.  
Quarterback dude chuckles.  
Jeremy catches Rich's eye. He raises an eyebrow and grins a little, and Jeremy gives him a subtle nod.  
"Christine, this is serious business."  
Quarterback dude laughs again and Brooke glares.  
It just makes him laugh more.  
Rich's gaze is lingering on his smile.  
"So," Jeremy clears his throat as the eyes of everyone at the table turn to him. "You know Micheal?"  
"Yeah. We're, uh, kind of his team." Quarterback says.  
Christine, the girl in the chair, giggles- she's so cute, jesus - "Jake, that sounds hella dorky." She turns to Brooke. "There's a chiller way to explain this, right?"  
Brooke smiles a little. He suspects it's entirely Christine's fault. "Alright, Jeremy-"  
"How do you know my name?" He interrupts. "Nobody outside of my organization knows my name."  
"Micheal does." She says wihout hesitation.  
So they are with Micheal.  
"Alright, so, how do you know him?" He's going down the list of questions that he'll be damned if he doesn't get answers to.  
"He poked around a couple crime scenes he shouldn't have a while back, and me and Jake noticed."  
"That's not vague at all." Rich mutters.  
Jeremy can hear Jake try not to laugh.  
"We take care of people like your organization, alright? We're like vigilantes or something. Less brooding and drama, though."  
Jeremy nods. This he can understand. 'People like your organization' stings, but he gets it.  
"So what is this?" Rich asks. "What are you guys doing here?"  
Brooke takes a deep breath and Jeremy watches as she looks to Christine, then Jake.  
"We were informed that it's... out of character for you to be pursuing a life of crime on your own." She pauses, then- "Micheal's worried you're being threatened."  
Jeremy takes a second to wrap his head around this, his heart beginning to pound as it clicks. Micheal's worried.  
He swallows hard, searching for something to say.  
"H-he is?"  
He clears his throat. The table is suddenly tense.  
"I, um." He meets Rich's eyes and raises his eyebrows slightly, suddenly helpless.  
"What if he is being threatened? What then?" Rich asks quietly.  
Brooke swallows hard and Jeremy watches her face before she speaks, taking in her nervous energy to avoid focusing on his own.  
"We want to help. We'd like to ask you to join us, dismantle your organization." She turns to Rich. "You too."  
Jeremy can hear his heart in his ears.  
The table is silent. The chatter of the other patrons is suddenly less than background noise, more like static, and he can see something desperate and yet strong in Brooke's blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh its nice finally having a chapter where christine is a major character b/c i love her to death  
> writing her isnt hard exactly but nailing down her characterization in this au is hard lmao  
> like shes still a kid?? and shes still a generally cheerful person??? but she knows how to just get pretty harsh when the situation calls for it
> 
> also the pacing of this chapter is Weird lmaooo it was hard to figure out and im still not totally happy with it but the chapter was way overdue so  
>  
> 
> also, a psa: you guys are so nice lmao and if u want to talk to me (translation: hear me bitch abt writing at 3am) hit me up on instagram @cosmicchill.jpg


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